Who Am I Now?
by blinnn
Summary: Based on the film, "The Jacket". AU. WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Blaine Anderson was 27 years old the first time he died. He remembered there was white everywhere. There was war, and he felt alive, but really, he was dead.


_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING!**___**WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.** Mentions of Blood, violence, and needles. Any further warnings will be listed at the top of EACH chapter!

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><p>Blaine Anderson was twenty-seven the first time he died.<p>

He remembered there was white everywhere. There was war, and he felt alive, but really, he was dead.

_Screaming; loud, raucous. Blood; stained, gushing._

_He felt but he couldn't move. He heard, but he couldn't speak._

"_I.D.?" A man._

"_Anderson, Blaine. 27." A woman._

"_Ah, here he is. Born in Ohio." The sound of the flip of paper, "Hasn't got any family listed... Call it in."_

_Beat. Beat. Beat._

_He felt, he listened, his limbs unmoving. Stinging in his eyes – they'd been open far too long._

_Twitch, twitch, involuntarily his eyelids closed._

_Blink. Twitch. Blink._

_The sting subsided slightly, a tear rolling down the side of his face._

"_Oh my god. This soldier's alive. He just blinked."_

"_He's been tagged already... worry about the others."_

"_No, no. Come look at this."_

_Blink. Twitch. Blink._

"_Shit." Blink. "We need a doctor over here!"_

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><p>1992. Duffel bag over his shoulder, Blaine walked down the road, unsure of where he specifically wanted to go. Canada, he supposed. Get out of the country. America was great, but there were memories he'd like to leave behind. Blaine was a soldier of the United States Army. He'd fought in the Gulf War, gotten <em>shot<em> while doing so, and was thought to be _dead_ until he'd proved otherwise.

He had no one waiting for him, no family for him to visit. All he had was the stuff on his back and some dog tags to make sure he didn't -_couldn't-_ forget who he was.

They'd diagnosed him with retrograde amnesia due to Traumatic Brain Injury, which -loosely defined- meant that he'd hurt his head and he doesn't remember how exactly it happened. Which was good, he guessed. Even though the memories of the injury itself were still fresh in his mind, he couldn't remember at all how he'd gotten to that point.

He remembered basics about his life. He was twenty-eight, he lived in Ohio, he loved to sing, and he was gay. He remembered bits and pieces of being in the war. Memories came and went but they never stayed long enough for him to dwell. They were instants. They were less like images and more like feelings. They shot into his mind and left him with a sadness and a fear, but they'd leave before he could figure out any specifics.

He was on his own, and he didn't really know what to do, but it didn't scare him like it should have. He should feel lost and afraid, but instead he feels free. He has the ability to start over.

He walks on along a mainly deserted road. There aren't many people driving. It's winter, there's snow, but the road is plowed and salted. He walks for what seems forever, heading North. He figured he's try to hitch a ride at some point, but the lack of people around made that idea a long-shot.

It's cold, and he's really just starting to feel it. There's nothing but the white of snow, the black of pavement, and the muddled gray/brown of leafless trees every now and then.

In the distance he sees a pick-up truck, pulled to the side of the road. He wonders if they need help, if he could even help them. If they're willing to give him a ride in exchange for his help. He hikes his bag up, fixing it's position over his should from when it had fallen a bit in his travel and gears himself up to talk to whoever he came to meet.

There was a boy, he noticed, as he grew closer to the vehicle. About seven or eight years old, he was leaning up against the tireof the truck. As he advanced, he noticed the hood of the truck was propped up. Car troubles. He approached the boy, noticing another person – an older man- in front of the truck trying to tinker with the parts. The man was having a hard time, though, as every few seconds he had to pull back and take a few deep breaths. He didn't seem to be in very good condition, despite only being in his 30's.

"Hey, do you need some help?" Blaine asked the boy, making sure not to bother the older man.

The boy was startled by the intrusion, shrinking back even further against the car. "M- my dad's trying to fix the car, but he's- he's not feeling well." The boy replied softly.

Blaine nodded, glancing at the man, who had given up on the car and was sitting on a mound of snow off to the side.

"Let me take a look. See if I can do anything." He smiled, and the boy nodded.

The man was breathing heavily on the ground, clutching his chest. Blaine was worried, but there wasn't a person for miles, let alone a hospital.

He set his bag down on the ground next to the truck and went to take a look under the hood.

"He- he's usually really good with this stuff, but... sometimes he has bad days." The boy assured Blaine.

Blaine glanced at him over the metal, "I'm sure he's great at it." He replied with a sincere smile. "Do you know what's wrong with him?" He asked, going back to fiddling with the car.

The boy shook his head, "He told me it's not my job to worry about him. I just have to worry about myself."

Blaine frowned a bit, pausing his ministrations. Yes, a boy his age shouldn't have to worry about that sort of thing, but if he was in serious trouble, he should definitely be straight-forward with his own son.

"What are these?" He hears the child say, and when he looks over, he sees him running his hand along the chain of his dog tags.

Blaine stops working, stepping over to the boy, "Those," He grabbed a tag in his hand, "are dog tags." The boy looked at him in wonder, "They're there so I don't forget who I am..."

The boy's eyes lit up, "Can I have them?"

Blaine laughed, "Yeah... sure. You can have them."

He beamed, "Blaine," He read, "that's you?"

Blaine nodded, "That's me. What's your name?"

"Kurt." He replied, before adding, "And my dad's name is Burt."

"Burt and Kurt," He chuckled, walking back to the front of the truck. He worked on the parts a bit more, and was pretty sure he'd fixed the problem, "Do you think you can reach the ignition?" He grinned at Kurt.

Kurt nodded with a smile, climbing into the front seat of the car.

"When I count to three, I want you to try to start the car, okay?"

"Yep!"

"Okay," He started, finishing up the job, "One... two... three!"

The truck started and Kurt yelped with excitement.

"Yay!" He got out of the vehicle and pummeled into Blaine, wrapping his arms around him for a hug. "You fixed it! Thanks!"

He laughed, rubbing the kid's back briefly before letting him go. "No problem, kid."

"Hey! Get your paws off of my son!" Burt yelled, getting up off of the ground and barreling towards them.

Blaine furrowed his eyebrows, raising his hands in surrender, "Sorry, sir. I don't want any trouble, I was just-"

"Dad., he fixed the car!" Kurt informed him and Burt grumbled, stumbling over to the drivers' side.

"Yeah, got it. Just- thanks, you can go now."

"_Dad_."

"Kurt, get in the car."

"Dad!"

"Get in the car. _Now._" He ordered, more firmly.

Kurt did has he was told, not without a roll of his eyes though.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to upset you." Blaine insisted, and Burt seemed to relax.

"Thanks for the help." His face was still hardened. He was obviously still not feeling well, but he seemed well enough to drive for now, and it wasn't as if Blaine could stop him. He climbed into the driver's seat, "Goodbye." With a slam of the door, he pulled back onto the road and drove off.

Blaine was alone again. He spent a good amount of time thinking about whether they'd gotten to their destination safely or not. He didn't really have much else to think about. But he pushed the thoughts away, thinking toward his future. He'd spent enough time trying to re-live his past over the better part of the last year. Not that he wanted to, specifically, but he felt the need to. He always had that gnawing feeling that there was so much that he was missing.

But he could never find the answers, and that was more than frustrating, so he gave up trying. He set his mind toward the things that are waiting for him to discover. So now, he was imagining his life – in Canada. He imagined a small apartment, a job that pays well enough. Just him, and maybe a man... a man that was strong, independent, and knew exactly what he wanted in life. He didn't think he could stand to be with someone that was like him in that way. He had no idea what he wanted anymore, he just pretty much wanted to live. He didn't want to be stuck in the same cycle of feeling lost and unaware of his path. He didn't necessarily need someone to guide him, but he needed someone that had their own path, that he could follow with them, support them and enjoy watching them grow.

He hoped and dreamed for that possibility. To be able to get out of his own head and into someone else's.

After a pretty sizable number of miles, he heard the sounds of a car approaching from behind him. He turned to see a station wagon, New York plates. As it neared him, he stuck out his thumb, hoping to hitch a ride at least up to New York State. He couldn't be that far from the line.

The car slowed and came to a stop. The man driving the car couldn't be older than twenty-five, but he wasn't a teenager. He wore a baseball cap, a white t-shirt under a New York Knicks Jersey, and shorts of the same material.

Rolling down the window, the man asked, "Where you headed?"

"I don't know... Canada, I guess."

The man hesitated, eying Blaine quickly before unlocking the door. "Get in, I'll take you to the border."

Blaine was floored, he hadn't been expecting that. Hurriedly, he opened the car door and took his place inside, "You- you don't have to take me the whole way, if you don't want."

The man grunted indifferently, pressing on the gas to start going again. "Nah, it's okay. I'm headed up to Niagara Falls anyway. Was down here visiting a friend, but the border's like twenty minutes from my house, don't worry about it."

Blaine nodded, "Well, thank you..."

"Don't mention it."

They drove in silence for a good mile or two, just listening to some random radio station that the man had picked.

Blaine wanted to ask his name. It seemed only right that he did so, seeing as they'd be in the car together for quite some time.

But as soon as Blaine opened his mouth to speak, he heard the sound of a police siren, and his car-mate swore.

Blaine looked in the rear-view mirror to see that the cops were, indeed, pulling them over.

"What- what are they pulling us over for?"

The shifty look on the Knicks fan's face was enough to make Blaine's stomach churn. "Recreation."

"Shit." Blaine swore, realizing that he'd gotten himself into a mess by hitching a ride with a stranger.

The officer approached the window, the man was squirming in his seat. Blaine was on edge. There had to be _some reason_ that the cop pulled them over, and he'd have noticed if they'd been speeding. Something was wrong; something was very, _very_ wrong.

The cop reached the window but Knicks guy didn't roll the window down. Blaine shot him a confused look but he didn't get anything in return.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

He's in the snow, there's lights flashing around him, he blinks. He's wavering in and out of consciousness. He sees blood, he sees white, he sees people, but they're a blur. He doesn't know what's going on. He can't move, he can't speak, he can't...see... anymore.

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><p>"Burt and Kurt... are the only things you know for certain about that day?"<p>

Blaine nodded, "Yes."

"And you're aware that we have no last name, no place of residence, for these _friends_ of yours?"

The prosecutor was only doing his job, Blaine knew that, and his story obviously didn't hold up. But he couldn't_ remember_. He couldn't remember anything. It was there – in his mind, he knew it was there but he couldn't _get _to it.

"Yes."

Witness after witness after witness.

Blaine sat in the courtroom listening to testimonies and statements. He wanted so badly to express himself, but he didn't know how.

"_Officer Trayer was shot three times. He was long-gone before anyone arrived at the scene."_

"_It's possible that Blaine Anderson is blocking out the event. It would explain his well-conceived plan about the little boy and his father. I have heard of Gulf War Syndrome."_

"_For Christ's sake, my client says he thinks he already died once. He doesn't know what's going on. He's not in his right mind."_

"There was someone else." Blaine had said. His attempts to retrieve the memory from his brain, only leaving him with that bit of information. "I don't... remember... all of it. But there _was_ someone else."

"_If Anderson did kill that officer, you can't hold a man responsible for a damaged mind."_

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Waiting, but _knowing_ that there was nothing he could do.

Blaine sat and listened and begged his brain to give him _something_, anything. He just needed to know what happened and even if they didn't believe him, he could rest at ease knowing that he didn't kill that officer.

"_We the Jury, find the defendant not guilty -by reason of insanity."_

"_Blaine Anderson, I hereby sentence you to be committed to an institution of the criminally insane. I hope that you will receive the care and attention that will help you, there."_


End file.
